


Pedestrians

by bastardbones



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Killing Game (Dangan Ronpa), M/M, Minor Kuwata Leon/Maizono Sayaka, Misgendering, Muteness, POV Second Person, Psychological Trauma, Purgatory, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28096755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: They came to two possible conclusions: that this was purgatory or they were still in the killing game. That, maybe, they were forced to suffer here until the game crowned a winner. They theorized until they realized how pointless it was... Perhaps they were just ghosts, haunting an empty school.(In which Kiyotaka Ishimaru joins purgatory).
Relationships: Fujisaki Chihiro/Ishimaru Kiyotaka/Oowada Mondo, Fujisaki Chihiro/Oowada Mondo, Ishimaru Kiyotaka/Oowada Mondo
Comments: 11
Kudos: 104





	Pedestrians

**Author's Note:**

> There's a theory that Kiyotaka suffered some kind of abuse at the hands of his grandfather. None of which the narrative describes in detail, but it is there, so I tagged appropriately. 
> 
> Sayaka refers to Chihiro using female pronouns, but the implication is that only Taka and Mondo know the truth. So, accidental misgendering, not intentional or malicious. Sayaka gets done dirty a lot, so I just hope she's likable here. She's my best girl.
> 
> (I know some people HATE stories written in second person, but I haven't done it in awhile... Sorry).

* * *

You don’t die right away.

Your right eye has hemorrhaged these ugly, red speckles, caused by the blunt force of your head injury. One time, you saw your grandfather with eyes like that. He was in fresh debt and Yakuza jumped him in broad daylight. Naturally, there was an audience; a few horrified bystanders watching as a suited man punched your grandfather. He wasn’t young anymore, but he wasn’t quite old, either. He had your father at a young age. Your father had you young, as well, and by the time you were five, your grandfather was fifty. You remember him babysitting you when the whites of his eyes were still red. You remember when he pulled you into his lap and everything that happened after. You thought it was a game. You thought it felt funny.

You are wheezing so hard that your labored breaths nearly manifest into visible puffs. You are so desperate for oxygen. Try breathing through it. When something hurts, just breath. The throb in your head is excruciating, though. You see your own blood spilling, you notice it in your peripheral view, becoming a fast forming puddle. That’s okay. That’s okay! Head wounds bleed more than an average cut. See, you know, you listened during health class! You were always paying attention and taking notes. You were studious and your father was always patting your head and saying things like, _“Good job, Kiyotaka!”_ You were so well behaved and you colored inside the lines and your father, praisingly, he said, _“Very good!”_

There is a whale in your throat—no, a _wail._ Silly mistake. It is a sound trapped in your esophagus, swimming there, and it feels enormous. You try forcing it out. You pant more, but it refuses to budge. You become frantic, as you hyperventilate with your head tipped back. 

“Sounds like hentai!” Yamada squeals.

With a smack, Celeste spits, “Shut up!”

You have no idea where she came from. Whether she was waiting outside the door or simply hovering from the shadows. Either way, she’s here now. Her heels click against the cold linoleum and the sound is thunderous, with your ear being so close to the ground. You can feel the vibrations of her steps. She kneels beside you, mindfully avoiding your blood. She is wearing a fresh coat of nail polish, you know because the air is stale and it is the only thing you can smell beyond iron. She strokes your face and your throat is beginning to burn. You want to say something, but your mouth refuses to cooperate. Her eyes are a shade very similar to your own and inside, you see yourself, reflected. The gash in your head and, oh— _oh._ It’s a lot worse than you thought. 

“Should I hit him again?” Yamada asks with a sheepish clench of his hammer. 

“You should have done it right the _first time_ ,” Celeste glares at Yamada and he squeaks. Then her shoulders drop with a sigh. “Oh, well.”

Celeste stands. She steps over your head, giving you the briefest glimpse of her lacy underwear. Yamada gets red in the face and maybe you would, too, if you possibly could. Nope. You are white as a sheet. You are about to die a “virgin”... but, aye, at least you got a panty shot (you imagine Kuwata saying that)! Perhaps she did it to mock you. To the best of your recollection, you have done nothing to wrong her. You never had a problem with Celeste, so it puzzles you that as the duo departs, Yamada scoffs, _“Rapist.”_

The word echos.

You are on the floor. You are on the floor and the room begins to spin. You are rotating, moving from the floor to the wall, but that doesn’t make sense. If you were on the wall, you would collapse with the weight of gravity and land back to the ground. Your body is pinned by some unseen force, as the room shifts like a Rubik's cube. You are on the ceiling, now. You are looking down to where your body used to be, but the blood is gone. 

You stand up.

The ceiling is the floor now. Or maybe the ceiling never stopped being the ceiling? Strange. The room looks precisely the way it did before. Stranger still, the splitting pain in your skull has dulled to a minor ache; when you touch your forehead, the skin is smooth. You check your wristwatch: **6:19 AM**. You arrived here at 5:55AM, just five minutes before the meeting time. If your watch is correct, then that means… Well. What _does_ that mean?

You exit the storage room.

There is an easel. Actually, there are several easels in the art room, but this one is set with a canvas. You reach out to touch it and discover the paint is still wet. The palette of oils paints—thoughtfully covered in plastic wrap—have been set aside for later use. The project appears unfinished. It must be; the canvas is nothing more than a coat of blue paint. You remember art class. You remember being handed a blank sheet of paper and being told to draw whatever you wanted. All the other kids seemed to like that, but you were eager for direction. How were you supposed to know what to do if no one told you? How were you supposed to know if you got it _right?_ What if you drew the wrong thing, or drew it incorrectly, or your performance was lacking? You were nothing but enthusiastic, but as you gripped your pencil and geared your thoughts toward success, no image appeared. Your page was blank.

(It was different with the coloring book. With the coloring book, you knew that grass was green and the sky was blue and your dad smiled and said—)

The hallway is quiet, which is not completely out of the ordinary. As the night late gets later, everyone tends to migrate to the ground floor, where the necessities are held. The upper floors are mainly for extracurricular activities. You can't recall why you were on the 3rd floor to begin with. Surely, you had a reason. Being on time felt immensely important, but the details are lost now. The click of your boots fill the stairwell, as you wrack your brain for an answer. The more you think, the more your headache begins to return. Which begs the question, why did your head hurt to begin with? As the stairs come to an end, your recollections remain distant. 

Someone has to be in the cafeteria. Someone always is. Asahina with a donut in her mouth or Oogami holding a warm mug of coffee. Fukawa mixing her ice cream to mush or Yasuhiro talking with his mouth full. You can see your bedroom, just diagonal to the right, but you have gone too long without seeing someone, so you make a left and—

Maizono, with two plates in her hands, holding two generous slices of apple pie, topped with whipped cream. Her eyes are the size of saucers.

_Maizono?_

Oh, you were supposed to say that aloud. 

_Maizono?_

Your lip trembles... Nothing.

_MAIZONO???_

Her face drops; the face of a girl that is very much alive. The last time you saw her, she was cold and blue-lipped, slumped against the wall of a shower. Her body was stiff and her belly was punctured and the memory is jarring, to say the least. You may or may not have had a few nightmares about Miss Maizono and her bloody corpse. Now, here she is, rosy cheeked and right as rain. A greeting is certainly in order. Then maybe you could ask her a question, like: how are you alive?

"Oh, Ishimaru," she says, mournfully. "I'm so sorry."

***

Maizono says she was alone for a long time. She says she wandered the school for what seemed like an eternity; frantically running through the halls, screaming at the top of her lungs. Time seemed to be frozen. It wasn't until she glued her eyes to the hands of a clock and watched as it ticked, agonizingly slow, that her theory was disproved. She could sleep, but rarely grew tired. She could eat, but rarely felt hungry (she had stomach pains, too, stabbing pains, so intense that food was unappetizing). Pain. She could feel pain. Once the solitude became too much, once she had searched every room and picked every lock, she tried a new course of action. She says she hung herself the first time. The second, she sunk herself in the pool (with dumbells, from the weight room). The third, with a kitchen knife. She says she tried recreating it perfectly, that maybe dying in the same manner would grant her a true death. Anything but this. Anything but the silence.

Then Enoshima appeared. She threw off her wig to reveal a head of black hair and Maizono hadn't cared to make sense of it yet. She hugged the other girl and begged her to be real. Enoshima, no—Ikusaba—was disguised as her sister, hence the dusty pink wig and red acrylics. She said her back hurt; she said there were these sharp pains piercing through her.

The girls spent every moment together. Sleep was unnecessary, but they decided to share a bed. Maizono says it felt like a sleepover; one long, grueling sleepover. They got up to cook, swim, play darts, and dozens of other activities to keep the boredom at bay. (Maizono says she much prefers boredom over the loneliness she endured--boredom is like a privilege now). It was girl's night, every night; they talked and shared secrets and Maizono taught Ikusaba how to braid hair. It seemed like nothing would ever change.

Then Kuwata arrived.

Maizono says he spent a lot of time screaming. He banged his fists against the front door and the windows and said this must have been Hell. Trapped here with the girl he killed and the other he watched die. This had to be his punishment, right? Maizono apologized to Kuwata, for attacking him with the kitchen knife. She thought, maybe, if there was forgiveness between them, all would be right and she could finally die-die. This realm was merciless, though. They talked it out and there was no discernible shift in the air. If anything, the clocks ticked even slower. 

She taught him how to sing. She taught him breath control, pitch, placement and resonance. Kuwata admitted that when he received her fateful invitation, he was actually hoping for a vocal lesson. Or maybe some how-to's for making it in the music industry. That surprised Maizono; she thought that was surprisingly sweet. She had done a lot of bad things to _make it_ and assumed Kuwata had all the same interests as those handsy photographers and sleazy producers. Kuwata said he had a crush, so maybe he had hoped for a kiss that night, too. Kuwata said that, you know, Maizono had a way of lighting up a room; even in a dreary place like this. Then he leaned in and… (Maizono blushes and skips this part of her story).

Then, Fujisaki.

She complained of a headache (you do not correct Maizono's use of female pronouns) and this feeling in her chest. She felt betrayed and belittled, then came to recall why. She said Oowada (his name makes your stomach sink) was responsible for hurting her. Oowada had howled, then there was a flash of pain and she awoke on the floor. Her injury had disappeared, but she knew she was dead. 

Maizono admits Fujisaki is a strange girl. Maizono had offered to paint her nails and she clammed up at the mere suggestion. Even Ikusaba, the tomboy, would entertain some of those girl-ish activities. Fujisaki decided to venture to the library, where she read every book available on binary code. Maizono didn't know much about computers, but befriending Fujisaki was important to her, so she sat and listened to everything the cute tech girl had to say ("and now I know a ton!" Maizono exclaims). 

Then, eventually, came Oowada.

Maizono had stumbled across him. He was hugging the wall, panting and sweating profusely. He tried walking only to stumble to the floor. He tried speaking, only to vomit. Maizono says—she's a bit guilty to admit this—she left him alone there. She had become incredibly fond of Fujisaki and resentful of her killer. So, Maizono turned a blind eye and Oowada, with a mouthful of bile, called her a bitch. 

He recovered much sooner than Maizono had anticipated, though. Before she could warn Fujisaki, Oowada was on top of the mousy brunette. Fujisaki had a face damp with tears and Oowada, slicked with sweat. He was gripping Fujisaki by the collar of her shirt and apologizing, or at least, that was what Maizono gathered, as she tugged the back of his Diamond jacket, in a desperate attempt at freeing her friend. He was disoriented, his speech was slurred and perhaps he hadn't known how terrifying he seemed. Kuwata and Ikusaba heard the commotion and came sprinting down the hall. Together, they managed to tear Oowada away and, rightfully frightened, Fujisaki bolted to her bedroom. 

Oowada isolated himself. A few times, Kuwata had knocked on his door, only to be met with silence. Everyone decided to proceed as normal, despite the uproar Oowada had caused. They were all hanging out at the pool when he finally finished his pity party. Fujisaki sat at the edge, with her feet in the water and Maizono wished she would join them for a swim. Then Oowada sulked in and instead of fleeing, Fujisaki welcomed him to her side. So he chucked off his shoes and dipped his feet in, too. Maizono says she watched them from the corner of her eye, in case the situation got sour, but it never did. By the time Maizono and the others toweled off, Fujisaki and Oowada were still sitting, speaking in hushed tones. Maizono realized their hands were touching, too. 

From waking up alone, to Fujisaki forgiving Oowada, Maizono says it could have been months. It felt even closer to a year. In that time, they had all become so well acquainted with each other, doing most activities as a group and always hoping to learn something new. It seemed they were stuck here. They scoured every book in the library about death and the afterlife. They came to two possible conclusions: that this was purgatory or _they were still in the killing game_. That, maybe, they were forced to suffer here until the game crowned a winner. They theorized until they realized how pointless it was. Maizono had tried killing herself and had come back three times, as though on a loop. There was no sense to be made in this place. Perhaps they were just ghosts, haunting an empty school.

"I know it's not fair," Maizono frowns, then comforts you with a squeeze. "You were one of the good ones."

You still can't speak. Maizono assures you that it may be a lingering symptom of your injury. 

"My stomach still hurts, sometimes." She eyes the pie, now set on the floor where you collapsed in your anguish. "I'm sure your voice will come back." 

You rest your head between your knees, absorbing everything Maizono had told you. You sniffle—your sinuses are still loose from crying—and wipe your nose with your sleeve. You aren't normally this sloppy, but perhaps, given the weight of information, a snot-stained uniform is excusable. Maizono is beside you, petting your head, and you feel guilty for it. Her legs must be freezing on the linoleum. 

"Would you like to see Oowada?" Your stomach drops again. Him. Him, him, _him._ "He told me you two were close."

You know Maizono thinks that Oowada might do a better job at comforting you. You know she thinks that and wants to be helpful, but you shake your head. You shake so frantically that there will be no mistaking it. You do _not_ want to see Oowada. Your memory is stirring and you remember how _obsessed_ you became of him. You wanted him and you wanted to be him and he caused you to completely lose your focus. You had clung so quickly and adored him so openly and he betrayed that. You made a promise, you and him, that you would survive together. That you would walk out of the school then get to see the sky again. You trusted him and then you defended him and then you shamelessly scuffled over a computer that bore his resemblance. He was your downfall. You were doomed from the moment you met Mondo Oowada. 

Maizono helps you stand. Your room isn't far, you fish out your keycard and as it clicks, the neighboring door opens in unison. Then there he is.

You punch him.

***

You never had your heart broken before. Romance was never a subject of interest; it seemed too distracting. You saw how high schoolers skipped class and started rumors over a bad breakup. You supposed it was easy to get caught up in drama like that, because almost everyone did. They gossiped and prattled while you studied for exams. Romance was so fleeting. It was unpredictable and unproductive. You figured, once earning your secondary degree, you would meet a nice girl with common interests, then marry and have children. That was the formula for your future. Most people did that and why should you deviate? ...What??? Did you think you were special? 

Mondo made you feel special. 

He held your hand and asked, _"This okay?"_

And it was, for a moment. 

You never considered a boy holding your hand until it was happening. You never considered how much it would hurt, until he was walking away from you with his head bowed. Deep down, you knew he was guilty, yet you had defended him, anyhow. You hated him for murdering Fujisaki; you felt sick in the pit of your stomach. When Mondo was executed, you were trapped between resentment and adoration. You remembered how warm his hand felt, then how ruthless he could be. He had gently cradled your heart, only to shatter it. 

You punch him and he swings back on instinct. 

You fall to the ground, but you take him with you, fist balled in his tank top. You climb on top of him and inside your head you are saying many things, but the words all die. Mondo raises his arms in surrender, he doesn't want to fight and he hadn't meant to hit you, either. A guy like him, half of what he does is muscle memory. You don't want him to submit, you want him to hurt you. You don't care if it's mean—you don't care if it's bad. Mondo, if he is half the man he claims to be, then you two will settle this like men. You drop your fist to his chest, striking the place he had struck you.

"Taka!" His voice rattles your eardrums. "Chill, man!"

Maizono is frozen. You had no intentions of startling her, nor Fujisaki, who emerges from seemingly nowhere. You realize he was with Mondo, that they were in his bedroom together. You feel stupid, as you notice the hickey near Mondo's collarbone. You press your fingertips to it and you look at Mondo, wide eyed and he answers you with an apologetic turn of his eyebrows. 

Fujisaki had done a lot more than forgive Mondo.

"Please, don't fight!" Fujisaki cries. Actually cries. If anyone rivals you when it comes to tears, then it is Fujisaki, no doubt. 

Your face scrunches up. You practically died for him. He made you feel SPECIAL. He distracted you from your goals and betrayed your promise and now you HATE him. You are trying very hard, at least. You still have this fantasy where you want him and he wants you back. You stumble away and lean on the wall, that space between his bedroom and yours. Fujisaki throws his arms around Mondo and Maizono reaches for you. 

"I'm sorry," Mondo shakes head. "I'd take it all back, if I could. I'm sorry..."

You glare at him.

Your door is still open. You shift away from Maizono as politely as possible and slam it behind you. Then you sink. A throaty gargle substitutes your scream. You smack the back of your head against the door, again and again, then cry in near silence. You deserve to be punished. What you just did is something Good Boys never do. You beat your head harder and there is no rhythm to it. You do it until the headache returns. You do it until you forget why you are doing it to begin with. 

In the morning, or what you assume to be morning, you tear through your carefully folded luggage. Tracksuit, swimsuit, then more casual clothes you thought you might need for a semester at Hope's Peak. You pull out a red knit sweater, black trousers, and a pair of red dress socks. Your current uniform is filthy, so you rip it off and redress. You cuff your pants and swap your boots with these shiny, white dress shoes with black soles. You loosen your wristwatch; you figure time keeping is useless now, being that you have nowhere to be, nor a schedule to keep. Without time to guide you, everything feels a bit meaningless. You grab your uniform and decide to do laundry. 

The laundry room door is open a crack. Rather than push it, you peek inside. Seated on top of the dryer is Fujisaki, wearing a baggy, beige sweater and a green, pleated skirt. His head is tipped up and his eyes soften as a voice mumbles something unheard. You are about to knock, but then you see Mondo leaning in for a kiss. He looks hungry, his gaze is half lidded and he moves with an appetite. He rests his hand on Fujisaki's thighs, then slides further as the kiss deepens. Soon, there is movement beneath that green skirt. Fujisaki whines and Mondo shushes him with a sugar-sweet, _"Babe."_

You hang your dirty sock on the doorknob and retreat to the cafeteria. 

Everyone else is there, eating whatever Maizono decided to make. She greets you with a soft smile, a full plate, and a pad of paper. 

"It'll come back," she reassures, then hands you a pen. "Don't worry!" 

"So, lemme guess," Leon butts in. He is as charismatic as you remember. "It was Togami, right?"

As in: Togami killed you, right? Three pairs of eyes anticipate your response... Ikusaba, this is the first time you are meeting her, properly. You forgot she had freckles and you stare without meaning to. She shyly tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. As for Kuwata's question:

 _Yamada_ , you scribble. 

They lean in to read your writing, then raise their eyebrows in disbelief.

_He must have been angry with me. Celeste was there, too. I don't know all the details._

"Where did it happen?" Ikusaba asks.

_The storage closet inside the art room._

Your classmates ponder this. You poke at your _omurice_ with a reusable pair of chopsticks. In ketchup, Maizono has written, **_even monkeys fall from trees_** , and you wonder where her resolve comes from. The longest one here, yet she still maintains a sort of enthusiasm. You take a bite and swallow, if only to please her. Then you set aside your utensil and retrieve the pen.

You ask: _Who started the painting upstairs?_

***

Your family could never afford a babysitter, but your grandfather had been forced into retirement and had plenty of time to spare. He would sit on the couch with a glass of whisky and watch as you stared down a puzzle. It was difficult, but you were determined. The picture was there, someone already drew it, so there was really no pressure. You were given instructions on what to do and that made you comfortable, because instructions were _good._ See, if there was something telling you what to do, then you could easily do it forever. You felt a sense of accomplishment as the puzzle clicked together… The border was the easy part. Then you worked your way to the middle, pausing only to peer up at your grandfather for validation. Everytime you looked, his eyes became darker.

Toranosuke Ishimaru was a broken man. His downfall was his own, but there was something that broke inside of him, long before all the money and the scandal. Your grandfather took another gulp of whiskey, patted his thigh and said, _"Come here, Kiyotaka."_

When it was over, he kissed your temple and said, _"Good boy, Kiyotaka."_

Sex is scary. You grew up without having much of it explained to you. What you know, you learned from health class and cable television, before panicking to flick off the screen. You think about Mondo kissing Fujisaki, with his hand up his skirt, and you think about the other things they may have done together. You don't like thinking about Mondo in that way. Mondo on top of someone... Mondo having sex. You shudder as his voice replays in your head; the way he said _babe_ with his eyes clouded by lust. You don't like it. You liked when Mondo held your hand, though. All you want is to maybe lie in bed while holding his hand, so you can pretend everything is okay, again. 

You return to the third floor.

The painting is a little different now. The blue has been mixed with darker shades, creating more depth to the image. The stool creaks as you sit on it. You stare blankly at the canvas until the door squeaks open. You are able to recognize him by his foot fall alone.

"When _Yamada_ gets here," Mondo says the name like garbage, "I'll help ya kick his sorry ass."

For a place so slow, word travels fast. You offer him less than a glance. With a sigh, he pulls out a stool and sets it beside you.

"We should prolly talk."

You are currently incapable of speech, but yes, you probably should. Your pen is nestled behind your ear, so you take it and write, _Oh, really? Do you think so?_

Mondo squints his eyes to read, so you scooch your stool closer. Then he laughs.

"Such a smartass," he says with a playful twitch of his mouth. 

Your heart skips a beat. You missed his smile and seeing it now makes you want to forgive him. 

_I'm sorry I hit you_ , you write, before bashfully shoving the paper to his face. He blinks on reflex, then reads the sentence. Then he takes your wrist in his solid, warm grip, and lowers your arm. 

"Y'know," he sighs, "I told myself if I ever saw ya again, I would kiss ya on the spot."

Your face turns red. You fumble out of his grasp and anxiously click your pen. Uncaring of misspellings, you write, _DONT say thngs like that!!!_

He rests his hand on your leg and you flush even harder. It reminds you of how he touched Fujisaki. You write that down next. 

_FUJISAKI???_

"He knows how I feel about ya," Mondo says very simply. He squeezes your knee and gives it a shake. If he did it calm you, it actually worked. Your brain can excuse the touch as platonic, although Mondo suggests the opposite. "We talked about it. We thought, y'know, if ya ever ended up here… If ya wanted, the three of us could…"

Your face is burning up. The three of you together? You imagine Fujisaki holding your left hand and Mondo holding your right. Butterflies explode inside your stomach and your pen goes _click, click, click._ Mondo decides to stop tormenting you for a second, then nods toward the unfinished painting. 

"I dunno what else I wanna do with it," Mondo shrugs. "Wanna help?"

You feverishly shake your head, but Mondo doesn't take that for an answer. Instead, he stands and pulls your stool toward the canvas. He retrieves the oils, then replaces your pen with a paintbrush. You are shaking now. You don't want to do it... What if you ruin it? What if you don't do it right?

"It's okay," Mondo reassures, as though reading your mind. He stands over you, guiding your arm, but not forcing it. "Just pick a color."

 _I can't_ , you want to tell him. You want to tell him, but you verbally cannot. He rests his chin on your shoulder and moves your arm like an extension of his own. He hovers over purple and you shake your head. Then red… No, you don't want red. Orange? You decide orange is okay. Together, you dip the brush into the paint.

The canvas is already blue. When you think blue, you think sky. What else is blue? What else is obvious? Mondo gave you a guideline and now you just need to follow it. You poke a dot of orange onto the canvas, then pause. Mondo is patient. Your arm is trembling, but he keeps you steady, like the trusty beams of an aging home. You decide to paint a goldfish. Or several... Dozens. Small enough that you don't have to add much detail. It's strange, because you thought you knew what goldfish looked like, but painting them now makes you second guess every stroke.

You notice Mondo has stopped assisting you. It reminds you of when your father was teaching you how to ride a bicycle and your main encouragement was knowing he was behind you. Only you turned your head to find him far down the block. You had crashed after that, face first into the street and scraped your cheek. You remember crying as your father carried you into the house. He closed the lid on the toilet seat and sat you there as he shuffled through the first aid kit. He bandaged your cut. Then he kissed it better. Your father may have missed the warning signs, your return to bed wetting and thumb sucking, but he was a good man.

You choose yellow next and use it to highlight each goldfish. You blend the paints out in some places and create a lightened orange. Mondo is still behind you and he thoughtfully rolls back the sleeve of your sweater. Mondo never struck you as the artistic type. When you were alive, he had told you about street art and graffiti and how he had even tagged a police station. You figured his sensibilities, if any, were sheerly motivated by mischief. He probably got bored. He probably kicked around the school for a while, before deciding this might be an interesting place to waste time. You imagine him aggressively squirting paint onto a wooden palette. You wonder, if you went searching, if you would find a canvas with a fist sized hole, too. There is something therapeutic about painting, though. He is calm and you are calm and you don't really care if your goldfish look silly. You dot their eyes with a dark brown—black seems too harsh—and rest your paintbrush.

You stand up, gesture to the picture and ask, "Is this okay?"

You clap your hands over your mouth and whip your head toward Mondo. His eyes are wide, but his expression quickly softens as he pulls you in.

"Hey!" He blurts, excitedly. Then he coos, wiping a tear from your face. "Taka..."

Now your shoulders are trembling. You finally free that awful sound from your throat, the one you've been carrying all this time, and it bounces off the ceiling. You are hit with a sense of relief and it spreads like warmth through your veins. You have lost many things and those things have rarely returned. In a way, you suppose Mondo came back to you. Your voice, too. Death has reunited you with both. 

"It'll be okay." He strokes your hair.

Blinded by tears, you search for his hand. He meets you in the middle, threading your fingers together and truly, that is all you desire. When you collapse against his chest, he catches you, effortlessly. Together, you sink to the floor.

Strange, to be on the floor, again. Gasping on the ground—isn't this where you started? You wonder, if while you lie dying, Mondo was just a short walk away, painting that canvas. The two of you, separated by the veils of life and death, so close, yet so far apart. Mondo, maybe he had shuffled through the storage closet for a new tube of paint, or a brush, or a palette knife. Maybe he had stood in your blood without knowing it. Maybe you didn't die alone.

You wipe your face and dirty your sweater. Mondo brushes his nose against yours, as though asking for permission. Why he would possibly want a kiss is beyond you. You must look far from attractive, with your glassy eyes and scrunched-up face. If he can appreciate you despite the spit and the snot, then perhaps you were right to feel special. You sniffle, then nod your consent. 

The kiss makes your head spin. You cry out with emotion, clutching his shirt as he leans in. His lips are soft and he parts them with a groan. The sound travels through you like a bolt of electricity, zapping down your spine. He gently lowers your head to the floor and somehow that isn't terrifying. It isn't terrifying as he hovers above you and it isn't terrifying as he marks your neck. Overwhelming, yes, but not terrifying. Mondo kisses you and the room spins and somewhere else, it is only 6:20AM on the morning of your death.

**Author's Note:**

> (Rarely do end notes, but Taka accepting a kiss from Mondo isn't there to magically eliminate his childhood trauma; it implies he has the confidence to heal and maybe pursue a romantic/sexual relationship). Thank you for coming to my TED Talk. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bastardbones


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